Chapter 6 - The Man in My Grandfather's FaceI replayed the security footage three times.
The man who had walked into the library looked exactly like my grandfather.
Same height.
Same cane.
Same limp.
Same voice.
Except for one detail.
The real Arthur Whitaker had a scar on his right thumb.
The man in the recording didn't.
Someone had worn my grandfather's face.
But why?
To convince us that he had been murdered.
To erase something.
Or to make someone else take the blame.
My father refused to answer more questions by phone.
He told me to return alone.
I didn't.
Mara and the boys stayed at a private hotel under false names.
I returned to Whitaker House with security.
The library had been cleaned.
No blood.
No bullet casing.
No body.
Nothing.
My grandfather had disappeared.
My father's explanation?
"Someone took him."
I stared at him.
"You expect me to believe that?"
"No."
He looked exhausted.
"I expect you to survive long enough to understand."
"Where is Micah?"
"I don't know."
"You signed his transfer."
My father's face changed.
"Where did you get that?"
"Project Echo."
He went pale.
"You found the laboratory."
"Yes."
He sat down.
"Then it's already too late."
"For what?"
"For all of you."
He rubbed his temples.
"Project Echo began before you were born."
"Why?"
"Your grandfather believed certain genetic traits could be inherited and amplified."
I stared.
"You were experimenting on children."
"We were studying them."
"That's what monsters say when they hire lawyers."
He looked away.
"There were dozens of pregnancies."
Mara had never told me that.
"How many children?"
"Thirty-seven."
My stomach twisted.
"Where are they?"
"Dead, missing, adopted, undocumented."
My father's voice broke.
"But your grandfather considered your bloodline different."
"Why?"
"Because you carried the strongest expression."
My mind raced.
"Expression of what?"
He opened a drawer.
Pulled out an old file.
The cover read:
ECHO LINEAGE: WHITAKER MALE 27
Inside were my medical records from childhood.
Blood samples.
MRI scans.
Psychological tests.
And one phrase highlighted in red.
Enhanced cellular memory response.
I laughed bitterly.
"That's why my nervous habit?"
"No."
He hesitated.
"Your brain responds differently to stress."
"How?"
"You retain patterns."
"Everyone does."
"Not like you."
He slid over a photograph.
It showed me at age five.
Standing beside my father.
My hand was behind my neck.
The same gesture.
I turned the page.
There were more photographs.
Ten years old.
Fifteen.
Twenty.
Always the same movement.
Then another photograph.
Milo.
The same gesture.
Mason.
The same.
Max.
The same.
Micah.
The same.
Four children carrying the same hereditary neurological marker.
I looked at my father.
"You made them."
"No."
"You studied them."
"Yes."
"Who else knows?"
He looked directly at me.
"Your mother."
I left.
When I returned to the hotel, Mara was gone.
The boys were there.
Three of them.
A note sat on the bed.
Don't come looking for me.
Beneath it was another line.
I finally remembered where Micah was born.
I called her.
Straight to voicemail.
Then the hotel's fire alarm went off.
The boys screamed.
Smoke filled the hallway.
Security rushed toward us.
I grabbed Milo.
Another guard grabbed Mason.
Max clung to my jacket.
Then the elevator doors opened.
A woman stood inside.
Blonde hair.
Black coat.
No expression.
She held out a photograph.
"Your mother sent this."
I took it.
It showed Mara standing beside a hospital bed.
On the bed was a newborn baby.
Four babies were visible in the photograph.
But one had been crossed out.
The woman looked at me.
"Your mother wants you to know something."
"What?"
"Micah was never the fourth child."
She stepped backward.
"The fourth child died the night you were born."
The elevator doors closed.
I stared at the photograph.
Because beneath the baby's face was a name.
May you like
ALEXANDER WHITAKER.
My name.
